


Fault

by themus



Series: Fault [2]
Category: The OC
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Car Accidents, Child Neglect, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gun Violence, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-06
Updated: 2007-09-06
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themus/pseuds/themus
Summary: They said it wasn't his fault.





	Fault

 

_They said it wasn’t his fault._  
  
  
  
It was Seth who pushed him into the driver’s seat while stumbling over his own legs like a newborn antelope.  
  
“Semper Fi, dude; leave no car behind. We don’t want to subject it to another ‘Imaxian’ experience do we?”

He remembers wondering how Seth could have such amazing control over his tongue when he had no control whatsoever of his limbs.

He remembers knowing that he was well over the limit, that he shouldn’t be driving.

He remembers having to blink the street markings straight.

“Put the pedal to the metal, man, I want to be home in time for the Late Late Show.”

He drove the speed limit, and they almost made it.  
  
  
  
_They said it wasn't his fault._  
  
  
  
It was the driver of the blue corvette who ran the red at the crossroads right in front of him.

“Ryan!” was all Seth could choke out in warning before they hit, and then they were a tumbling ball of twisted metal, extruding glass and steam where the radiator had disintegrated upon impact.  
  
He remembers thinking how it looked like a film noir with the moonlight shading the asphalt and the steam drifting like dry ice in the soft ocean breeze.

He remembers the stunning silence after all the noise.

"Ryan. Are you okay?"

He could feel nothing but hot, branding pain as Seth said, "I think I'm okay."  
  
  
  
_T_ _hey said it wasn’t his fault._    
  


It was the nurse who, quite accidentally, let slip about Seth being a paraplegic.

He stared at her, stunned, when she came back in the room, the doctor she had been talking to rushing off hurriedly.

She wrapped his broken arm in white plaster, sewed up his cuts, gave him pain medication for all the bruising. And ushered him off to find 'his parents'. The parents whose child he had ruined.

He remembers standing in the hospital hallway, unable to move forward, as if someone had glued his feet to the floor.

He remembers the shock wearing off as he stood there, melting away to puddle around his boots.

He remembers not being able to breathe.

 

No one came to find him while he was puking his lungs, heart and soul into the restroom sink.   
  
  
  
__  
_They said it wasn't his fault._  
  
  
 

It was Sandy who first said they didn't blame him, weeks before they finally brought Seth home.

"It's okay, Ryan. It wasn't your fault."

But his eyes were dull and tired where affection used to sparkle, and his hand was limp when he squeezed his shoulder.

He remembers the bleached smell of Seth's hospital room, where his friend lay silent, shutting out the world, where everyone faded into silence around it. It ate up hope and happiness like acid dissolving paper.

He remembers wanting to dissolve into himself and become nothing, to reverse the damage he had caused this family.

He could find no words to respond when Sandy said again, "We don't blame you."

  
  
_They said it wasn't his fault._

  
  
It was Summer who gave him a ride to school the Monday after Seth came home.

He stared out of the car window, watching the ocean wash past - the cleansing blue horizon. He still felt dirty whenever Summer looked at him, like she could see right through his fragile shell to the spreading black inside.  
  
"It's not your fault, Atwood."

He remembers flinching when she spoke, impaled by the words, thinking of the Cohens' drained faces and the way they said that to him, too, with less conviction every time.  
  
He remembers the strong scent of leather from the seats and the way Summer's hand trembled on the wheel.  
  
He remembers screwing his eyes shut as they came up to _that_ crossroads, even though it had been months and the sand must have been gone, the painted crosses rubbed away, the shards of glass and metal long swept up.  
  
It took the school nurse and the guidance councillor to get him to open his eyes again.  
  
  
  
_They said it wasn't his fault._

 

It was Caleb who ruined Thanksgiving by drawing attention to him.

“What's wrong with the boy, Kiki? It looks like you haven't fed him in months.”

He remembers the awkward silence and the way the Cohens avoided looking at him, glancing from each other to their plates where the ordered-in food was cooling rapidly. And that was almost a relief, because he hadn't wanted them to notice, he'd just wanted to fade away silently.

“We've been very busy, Dad. Seth is . . . it's difficult.”

He remembers that as the first time Caleb looked at him with an expression other than derision and distaste.

He remembers that part-amused pity wasn't much better.

No one questioned him when he left the table early.  
  
  
  
_They said it wasn't his fault._

 

It was Kirsten who made him leave, although she didn't know it at the time.

There were tomato stains on her blouse - bright orange spots on the pale, striped blue - where Seth had knocked his lunch out of her hand again, and she was scrubbing at them with the back of a sponge although the stain was already set in.

"No one holds you responsible, Ryan. It was an accident."

He remembers wondering whether she was thinking about the tomato or the crash when she said that.  
  
He remembers wanting to say, "I'm sorry," but being unable to form the words that used to come so easily, while she stared at him, hard, daring him to say it.

He left a note that night and took a bus to San Diego.  
  


_They said it wasn't his fault._

 

It was his new landlord who recommended the job. It was a desk job - data inputting - and boring as hell, but he knew the Cohens would never think to look for him any place other than construction.

_Ryan, where are you? We're worried about you, please call.'_

He remembers waiting for their messages, like drops of golden rain, although their voices only multiplied the guilt.

He remembers wishing they would stop and let him go, because that was why he had left.

He remembers how the office felt like the pool house that afternoon, because the light was cast just right between the vertical blinds. And how it made him homesick for the home that didn't exist anymore.

He stopped by the grocery store on the way back to his apartment.

 

_They said it wasn't his fault._

 

It was the man in front of him at the checkouts who pulled the gun.

"Empty the register. Now. Don't anybody else move."

He remembers the look of despair on the cashier's face.

He remembers the beads of sweat on the back of the gunman's neck, the way they dropped, symmetrical, down the collar of his jacket.

He remembers one of the other customers, shaking, wrapped in his brother's arms, "I think I'm okay."

He felt nothing but oddly satisfied after the gunshot sent his legs buckling underneath him and dropped him to black and white linoleum.

 

_They said it wasn't his fault, but it was._

 

 


End file.
